Dr. Suze Espouses

Build the Red Wall

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Perhaps, you know POTUS was in Phoenix on Friday for his Build the Red Wall political tour. As a parsed the title, I shook my head in disbelief. Why would a President ever use those terms? Obviously, no sane leader of the free world do so.

Build a Red wall? I equate the word red with STOP. Stop what? Voting rights? Equity? Ships from entering the Strait of Hormuz? Universities’ academic freedom? Money to public education? Funding of FEMA, Department of Forestry, and Lunch programs? Vaccine protocols? Pope Leo? Bruce Springstein?

Wall? Wall, for what reason? To keep our neighbors out? To keep the Congress polarized? To create a nation of isolation?

Our world has shrunk. If our planet is to survive, health, economic, and environmental issues must be addressed globally with collaboration, cooperation, and respect. As Ronald Reagan so aptly said, “Tear down the wall.” We can’t build walls high and deep enough to keep disease, climate change, and aggression out. We MUST build bridges, not barriers, if we want humanity to survive.

Finally, American leadership (?), if there’s such a thing, needs to end the mudslinging, name-calling, and to reel in the tyrant toddler, who has the audacity to even attack the Pope and mock his peaceful agenda. Bridges–not walls.

Sunday School and Easter: Who Brings the Eggs?

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A friend and I co-taught Sunday School to first and second graders for twelve years; our biggest challenge came from Easter week. Unlike the magical time of Christmas, our kids had great difficulty understanding and even believing in the crucifixion and the resurrection. One doubting Thomas announced to his classmates, “That’s not true. My goldfish, Nemo, died and didn’t come back to life.”

Another quipped, “My Mimi died, but she was real old. Too old to come back.”

One very precocious little girl announced, “Jesus is alive. He brings the eggs!” And with that comment, chaos erupted.

“He does NOT! The Easter Bunny brings the eggs!”

“Miss Sue, does the Easter Bunny hatch his own eggs or does Jesus?”

“No, Mandy, neither the Easter Bunny, nor Jesus hatch eggs. People and rabbits don’t lay eggs. Let’s think of some animals that lay eggs.” The discussion continued for a few more minutes about chickens, birds, and ducks, and then it was snack time. Thank goodness because my patience was ready to bolt from the room.

Curiously, though, years later I read that approximately 25% of Americans conduct an internet search this time of year to find out if rabbits are hatched from eggs. Hopefully, none of the inquiries came from my former kiddos.


An Absurd Notion: Equality

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To Whom This May Concern:

Please don’t waste my time by talking about equality. It’s an idyllic fairy tale that some call heaven, Shangri-La, or Utopia. But it doesn’t exist in reality. Of course, you’re entitled to your own contrary opinion, but only after you look at the facts:

  1. Equal pay for equal work. Women’s salaries for identical positions are 20+% less than men’s. Why?

2. Each person gets one vote. That depends. POTUS is demanding Congress pass his “big beautiful SAVE Act” that severely penalizes women, if they changed their last name when they married. Secondly, mail-in ballots would be curtailed, but yet last week POTUS, FLOTUS, and SOTUS voted by mail. Why? When asked, he said, “Because I’m THE President.”

3. All individuals are treated equally by the legal system, ensuring that no one is above the law. Really? This is nothing more than a platitude. Anyone who reads the newspaper or watches the news knows this is not true. Equality is solely based on money and power. Pedophilia is a heinous crime against our children. Boy Scout leaders, coaches, teachers, groomers are sentenced to prison for years. Yet, Epstein’s band of pedophiles continue to roam the streets.

Equality?

My Visitor Redux

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In August I shared the story of the night I returned home and found my dogs lunging around the television. I described my apprehension, as to what captivated their attention–a snake, a bat, a rat, or some other creature. It was a squirrel! A squirrel, who then escaped to an upstairs bedroom and eventually vacated my casa through the balcony door.

Two weeks ago, I saw Mr. Squirrel again. By now, a chubby, full-grown squirrel romping across the front yard. I was glad he survived the nightmare of inhabiting my house for a week and delighted I chose not to pay $2,800 for critter removal! Until….

Until, I had to prepare for out-of-town, house guests last week: my niece and her husband and their two kids. After tidying the first two bedrooms, I wandered into the third–the one Mr. Squirrel had vacationed in. I pulled the hide-a-bed sofa apart. WTH? Underneath the sofa was a mass of shredded wood! WTH? Was he feasting on my sofa innards? No wonder he’s fat. I examined the shards of wood. Hmm.

To my horror, I looked up. Mr. Squirrel had chomped off the tops of several slats of the pricey, plantation shutters! I was livid. As I cleaned up his mess, I cursed his soul. But my anger subsided when I learned that squirrels are known to plant thousands of trees across the earth–an interesting fact. And who knows, maybe one of his reforestation projects will replace my ragged shutters?

The Cornered Liar

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“I am the Peace President.”

“I guarantee that if Kamala Harris is elected, the United States will enter World War III.”

“Our President (Obama) will start a war with Iran because he has absolutely no ability to negotiate. He’s weak, and he’s ineffective.”

“I’ve ended eight wars.”

“Obama will launch a strike in Libya or Iran. He is desperate to distract from his domestic failures that haunt him.”

Sounds to me like someone else is desperate to distract from any number of domestic issues, including the Epstein Files. No, we Moms, Grandmothers, and Aunts haven’t forgotten about the abusive, revolting treatment of our youngest, most vulnerable members of our society. Prosecute and try every sleaze ball! This is an embarrassing national scandal of epic proportion.

Thank you for your attention to this matter. Dr. Suze

Protest Songs

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For my tenth Christmas, I asked Santa for a clock radio. As the technology improved, I had a transistor radio, and by the time I went to college in 1966, I had a primitive stereo system. I also learned to play the guitar and strummed a lot of folk music, written by Bob Dylan, Buffy St. Marie, and Joan Baez. I played and sang, Universal Soldier, Where Have All the Flowers Gone, If I Had a Hammer, and Blowin’ in the Wind.

On my car radio this week, I heard Buffalo Springfield’s For What It’s Worth, and time stood still. I was blasted back to the past! To the mid- 60’s and 70’s. To my era of protest songs: Turn, Turn, Turn; Respect; Give Peace a Chance, Eve of Destruction, Requiem for the Masses, and my most poignant memory–Four Dead in Ohio.

And now, almost sixty years later the music of the past is alarmingly relevant. Have we not learned anything? I guess not, or Springsteen would not have surged to the top of the charts with The Streets of Minneapolis.

If You Feed Them, They Will Come

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(I’m not talking about teenage boys; everyone knows they consume volumes of food and drinks. When my brother was that age, he’d take a half gallon of milk and shred a bag of candy bars into it and drink the whole jug after school. My youngest used to have parties at our home after Friday night games, and I’d have to replenish the pantry and the freezer on Monday mornings.)

What I am talking about, though, is the new rage for birdwatchers: The Bird Buddy. Since my three-year-old grandson, Blake, is enamored with birds, I was gifted this high-tech, AI, contraption for Christmas, so I could share pictures with him of Arizona birds. In turn, he’d share his photos from North Carolina. As a technological immigrant, I was not jazzed about learning to navigate this pricey, solar bird feeder and camera, but…after all, it was for Blake.

Surprisingly enough, I buried the shepherd’s hook in the ground, downloaded the app, assembled the parts, and filled the feeder with native bird seed. I was ready! Over a month has passed. Not one bird has visited my luxury dining establishment. Why? I don’t know. Perhaps, they are camera shy. Perhaps, they don’t like my cuisine. Perhaps, they prefer to peck my nearly ripe tomatoes and devour my grass seed.

I can’t understand why the copious amounts of birds that live in my environs decided to boycott my restaurant. They’ve never hesitated before to flock to a seed block, nest under the eaves, or poop in my citrus trees. Realizing I can’t disappoint Blake, I’m searching for options. I considered posing fake birds on the feeder, but when I checked the camera photo–obvious fake news! I was seriously thinking I’d even buy parakeet and set it free after my Kodak moment. My conscience cancelled that decision; I couldn’t have a parakeet be hawk or owl bait. One of my friends sent me this suggestion:

Do you think I should try it?

The Trophy Wife

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Initially, some of you may find this moniker flattering. Is it? When I hear this term, I immediately think Anna Nicole Smith or Melania Trump. Granted they both were/are physically attractive and spared/spare no expense on maintaining themselves, from BOTOX to plastic surgery, exquisite wardrobes, and rigorous diets and exercise. In short, they are mere arm candy for their much older Sugar Daddy/husband.

With that being said, a friend recently asked, “If someone called you a trophy wife would you be offended?”

I laughed, “Me? I’d think they must be blind! I’m neither gorgeous, nor married!”

“Seriously, Sue. I need to know because when I told my husband about it, he said it was a compliment.”

“Hmm. He must be naive or doesn’t want you to feel bad about someone saying such crap.”

“So you agree? It’s derogatory?”

“Yep. Trophy wife has negative connotations. It’s reminiscent of Blonde jokes or BVD jokes.”

“BVD jokes?”

“Beautiful but Very Dumb. Women who are uneducated, unsophisticated, and have little substance. You, on the other hand, are the antithesis. You are educated, intelligent, and articulate. You can’t help it that you’re also good looking and blonde. Whoever called you a trophy wife is envious. And just remember what our moms taught us.”

“Sticks and stones….”

WTH? It’s A Scam!

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The other day, my friend received these four pieces of plastic in the mail. No invoice, nor instructions were included. She and two of her neighbors tried to assemble the contraption and reached this conclusion.

WTH? They were clueless. “Look up the company listed on the return address. It’s Gathers Fottys.“

Hmm. Gathers Fottys or Geathers Fottys, 3646 S Wolcott Ave., Chicago, Illinois, 60609 is a scam.In fact, it is called brushing–short for brushing up. The scammer finds its customers by trolling the Dark Web for addresses, particularly online advertisers on social media, like Facebook and Instagram. Then he/she mails his/her target a cheap, useless what-not. The unsuspecting targets are clueless, unless they notice an unauthorized purchase on their credit card, Pay Pal, or Venmo. When they report this to their creditor, the scammer provides proof of delivery. Or in some cases, simply uses the target’s name to brag about the quality of their products online. The same tactic is used in bait and switch schemes, when one orders an electric scooter for the low price of $99 and receives six battery-operated tea lights instead. The scammer has proof of delivery, and the target has little recourse.

Of course, victims can report these incidents to the Postal Service, to the Better Business Bureau, and to law enforcement, which is informative, but offer little prospect of monetary compensation. Additionally, by Federal law, the victim does NOT have to return any unsolicited item. In fact, victims are advised NOT to return items because the scammer is now assured the address of his target is correct. Talk about a waste of intelligence! These perps who set up elaborate scams could make money if they used their talents in legitimate endeavors.

Now if you receive one of these packages with random crap, I repeat you can kept it, recycle it, regift it, or trash, but check your credit card or other methods of payment. You’re welcome.

GIRLS: A True Story

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Allison is a young friend of mine, who’s originally from New York, as in the City. Yes, she has the Naw Yawk accent. She was educated in elite private schools, holds a degree from Hofstra, and is an accomplished equestrian. Given her very pricey hobby of owning horses, she has three jobs. By day, she’s a supply chain manager for a large corporation, she’s a professional, three-night-a week bartender, and she teaches riding lessons on the weekend.

Surprisingly , Allison is one of the most upbeat persons I’ve ever met. She’s uber enthusiastic and energetic, yet on my last encounter she was sad. Oh dear, I thought. Did something happen to one of her horses? Or one of her adopted chihuahuas?

“Allison, talk to me. What’s going on?”

“Sue, I got called into HR today.”

“Wow, are you being promoted again?”

“I wish. No. I used inappropriate language.”

I smiled. “Like what? Called someone a name, like jerk or horse’s ass?”

“According to HR, I did something far worse; in fact, totally inappropriate in the work place. I manage a seven-member team of women. The HR Director overheard me say, ‘Hey girls, where shall we go to lunch today?'”

“And you got called in for that?”

“Yep. I was told to refer to them as ladies or women. Girls is inappropriate.”

“Allison, sit down. Let me tell you a story–a story I know you studied, given your classical education. Remember when Juliet asks, ‘What’s in a name?’ What does she say next?”

“That which we call a rose by any other name would smell as sweet.”

“Correct. My dear Allison, girl is more appropriate than the current government’s use of piggy or fucking bitch.”

What do you think?